


Affair

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [42]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Schmoop, john's day off, sherlock is a sentimental idiot, the sheer level of schmoop in this fic is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>John watches a movie on his day off and is unprepared for the affect it has on Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affair

Of all the films in all the world, it was the last one that John would have suspected Sherlock of enjoying.

He hadn’t planned on making Sherlock sit through it. It had been on the telly and it was his day off and when he heard those first familiar notes playing on the piano he had smiled, put down the remote, and picked up his cup of tea with every intention of settling in for the next hour and a half to enjoy himself.

Sherlock, with the languid grace of a cat finding an unexpected patch of sun, hadn’t asked before collapsing onto John ten minutes later, long limbs folding under him and dark head landing squarely across John’s thighs.

“What are we watching?” he’d asked.

“You won’t like it,” John had assured him, a hand automatically falling into that chaotic mop of hair, fingers threading through silk.

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

Sherlock had grunted and gone silent, and after a while John had assumed he’d slipped noiselessly into his mind palace. 

He’d lost himself in the film for a while, letting it drag him away to the SS Constitution, to Villefranche-sur-Mer, to New York. He was smiling by the time they finally reached that perfect Christmas Eve, the way only Hollywood used to make it, and when the piano started playing again he’d blinked to find Sherlock still on his lap, his fingers carding silken wool.

“Sherlock?” he’d said, gently bouncing his legs to get his attention, and Sherlock, without a word, had rolled to his feet and walked away. John had watched him go, puzzled and concerned, seeing the tension in his shoulders, hunched up around his head.

He had been quiet the rest of the night, both of them had. John because Sherlock was, and Sherlock because…well, John had no idea why. But he let the silence slip in, unchallenged.

John went to bed early, the quiet oddly comforting, making him loose and relaxed, and he’d slid under the covers alone, puzzled but convinced there was nothing too seriously wrong. It didn’t feel like that. He knew Sherlock’s moods and this one was unfamiliar to him. He fell asleep thinking about it, to the noiseless hum of the city on the other side of the walls.

~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes, hours later, to the compression of the mattress at his back. To hands on his waist, slipping around him and pulling him close. John is half-asleep, fighting off the edges of it, imperfectly conquered, but he doesn’t protest at the kisses that find him, the slow laving of a tongue at the back of his neck. He sighs, content, at where the hand finds him next, at the junction of thigh and torso, where he’s already twitching awake in spite of the slowness of his brain in catching up. He groans at the press of something hard against his back, then slipping down to settle somewhere else, a perfect counterpoint to the hand slowly stroking at his front. Then the slippery head of something hot and wet and familiar, pressing upwards, pressing in, and John gives a sleep-heavy groan of pleasure as it slowly fills him up.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t have to. He lays there as Sherlock pulls him apart, dragging him to pieces with his hand, his penis, his tongue. It is a slow and languid love-making and they are both almost silent, even when John feels the shudder in the warm body behind him and the slow wetness that fills him up from the inside. Even when his own orgasm overtakes him, leaving him shaking and gasping into the sheets.

They lay there, unspeaking, and John can feel the edges of sleep coming to reclaim him, when he becomes aware of something wet at the back of his neck and an odd tightness in the body pressed so tightly against him. He fights with himself to turn over, forcing his eyes open to find Sherlock, head ducked in shame and something wet glittering in the half light on his face.

“Sherlock?” John asks, aghast. “Are you—are you crying?”

There is a clumsy swipe at his face with a large hand before Sherlock looks up, glaring at John. “No,” he lies.

John is fully awake now, trying to sit up, to pull Sherlock to him, to shake him and hold him at the same time. “Sherlock. Jesus Christ, are you hurt? What’s happening? Did something happen? Jesus bloody Christ, talk to me!”

“I’m fine, John! Just—” he stops, glares. The back of a hand scrubs defiantly at his eyes like a petulant child. “I know how stupid and stubborn you are.”

“Me? _I’m_ stupid and stubborn?”

“Yes. And you’re getting older. And I know your limp comes back sometimes. And your shoulder hurts more and more. And after watching that idiotish film of yours I thought I should mention, just in case you get any stupid ideas in the future: I don’t need you to walk. I don’t care if you never walk again. Or never shoot again. If you ever try and leave, to ‘make things easier’ for me, out of some idiotic noble sentiment about letting me live my life in freedom, I will hunt you down like Nickie did. Only I won’t be as stupid and slow as Nickie. You won’t get an hour ahead of me before I hunt you down and drag you back. Do you understand me?”

John stares at him, at the angry defiance on his face, the tears still bright in his reddened eyes, and he has to try very, very hard not to throw his head back and laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he says. “You do realise that _An Affair to Remember_ is just a film, right? Those things don’t happen in real life. It’s just not that romantic. And anyway, me leaving you is never going to happen, no matter how crippled I may become. God, you’re so stuck with me you’ll be wishing us both dead before we’re fifty. I’ll make you change my diapers when I’m ninety and you’re a fresh youthful lad of eighty-seven.”

Sherlock scowls at him, but the silent tension is slowly vanishing to be replaced by his usual pout. “Don’t be disgusting, John,” he says. “Besides, you’ll be in diapers by the time you’re eighty.”

“Oh, well, something to look forward to,” John says, and slides back down to press himself back against Sherlock. “And just in case, I promise to change your diapers, too.”

A possessive arm slithers immediately around him. “Stop being such a sentimental idiot, John,” Sherlock murmurs in his ear, and John smiles.

"Yes, Sherlock," he says, and pretends not to notice the softness of the kiss on the back of his neck.


End file.
